A Cold Day in Hell Read online

  “Well, don’t. David’s a good kid. He can’t help it you drive men wild.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Goodbye … ”

  She’d had a productive day with Reese. Neither Rodney nor Luz could pick Steinmetz’s face out of a photo array. However, Rodney picked the koi tattoo immediately. “That’s it,” he told Joy Walsh that morning as Lauren and Reese watched from the monitor in the sergeant’s office. “That’s the tattoo the guy had. Never seen one like it. It’s like art, you know? No skulls or roses. It looks like a painting, except it’s on his hand.”

  Luz took it a lot harder. She looked at the pictures again and again. She kept coming back to number three—which was good old Kenneth—the paper shaking in her hand, and repeating, “I want to say it’s this guy. But I’m not sure. I’m not a hundred percent. But it looks like the guy … I just can’t say for sure.” Finally, Joy told her it was all right, gave her the box of tissues the Homicide squad kept in the interview room, had her sign the paperwork, and cut her loose.

  “All we got’s an ID on the tattoo,” Lauren said, gathering up the paperwork from Joy and thanking her for helping out.

  “It’s more than we had this morning,” Reese pointed out. “And he’s not the stabber. All he has to do is give up his girlfriend’s name.”

  “You think he’s going to do that?” Lauren asked, popping the disk out of the machine to add to the file. The integrity of the identifications was big on defense attorneys’ to-do lists as far as suppression hearings. Videotaping them made everything easier. A guy like Violanti couldn’t come at the detectives and claim they influenced the witnesses at all.

  “I think we should take a drive out to Orchard Park tomorrow and visit Mr. Steinmetz,” Reese said as they walked back to the cold case office.

  Lauren glanced down at the thin, gaunt face staring back up at her from the paper, and then thought of Vinita sitting in front of the birthday cake smiling like it was the best day of her life. “Looking forward to it.”

  It was a little cooler outside as she left for the day. The weatherman said a cold front was moving in from the northwest and the heat wave was breaking. It was just past six o’clock and she was heading for home, breaking the law by driving and talking on her cell phone to Mark.

  He had called her twice from his office that morning and she hadn’t been able to talk. As soon as she’d hung up with Violanti, Mark had called back again. Not having sex was better than getting some. At least this time. She felt like they were dating again. Any doubts or guilt were so thoroughly masked by her bliss that they were practically nonexistent. She was going to go home, take a long, hot bath, and wait for Mark. Life was good.

  39

  Two nights in a row, Joe mused. He was spending more time there. Mark had gotten to her house at seven thirty. Wonder what he tells his wife, Joe thought. Working late? Big case? He guessed it didn’t matter. With his kind of scratch, a wife would look the other way to maintain her lifestyle. Women were brutal like that. He wondered what Lauren was getting out of him. A new car, perhaps? Maybe tomorrow he’d pull into his surveillance spot and there’d be a brand-new convertible in the driveway. He focused the binoculars on her upstairs window, but the blinds were closed.

  They’re probably having sex right now, he thought. He probably has her bent over the bed and she’s taking it like she likes it to get her new car. Blond hair covering her face. Fingers grasping the bed sheets tight. Her breath coming in little gasps like she did when she was into it. Or pretending she was.

  Suddenly he threw the car into drive and peeled out. His tires squealed as he tore out onto the street and toward the strip club. Someone was going to get it good from him tonight. The Joe Wheeler special. No little gasps, but maybe some screams. Maybe that little bitch from Canada, if she was working. Too bad it wasn’t going to be Lauren. Not tonight. Not yet.

  “Did you hear something?” Mark asked, looking from the chessboard set up on the dining room table.

  “Probably some stupid kid.” She took his last pawn with her queen and smiled wickedly. “I got you now.”

  40

  Kenneth Steinmetz lived in a brand-new development in one of the nicer towns south of the city. Orchard Park, home of the Buffalo Bills stadium, was also home to some very upper-upper-middle-class residents. Given his look when his mug was taken, Lauren was surprised he’d be living out there. But then again, he could be living in his parents’ basement, smoking weed and playing video games as a forty-five-year-old man.

  Still, Lauren mused as the Impala rattled its way through the

  picture-perfect streets, it was a nice break from the noise and grit of the city. I could never be a cop out here, she thought. I’d miss that constant hum, that perpetual motion. That was one of the reasons she stayed in the house that Mark bought. She could have sold it for a nice profit, got a little Cape out here on a cul-de-sac, drove a Lexus SUV just to keep up with the Joneses, but she would have missed the vibe of the city.

  Even though she lived in one of the few gated communities, the last refuges of the old money in the city, it was still not as pristine and sterile as this.

  “Ugh,” Reese grunted next to her. “How long do you think it’ll take before we get pulled over? A black man driving a crappy car with a blond white lady?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. Has that ever happened to us?”

  “Not yet.” His eyes scanned the street. “But I’m not looking forward to it when it does.”

  Lauren pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair, shook it loose, and then tied it back again. Kids were riding their bikes on the sidewalk, enjoying the summer day. People were walking their dogs, stopping to chat. Nope. She watched the house numbers go down. This is not for me. I’m a city girl.

  Steinmetz’s house was a tasteful blue and gray Cape Cod, complete with overflowing hanging baskets dripping from the rafters of the front porch. There was only one car in the driveway, a newer dark-colored Lincoln. They parked on the street, so vastly different from Luz Hernandez’s, and got out.

  “You think he’ll talk?” Reese asked, meeting her on the sidewalk.

  Lauren adjusted her badge on one hip and her Glock on the other. “I guess we’ll see. If he’s even here.”

  They made their way up the stamped-concrete sidewalk and climbed the three steps to the porch. No couches, plastic kids’ toys, or empty forties lying around, just a handsome wicker chair set, complete with matching coffee table. Lauren pressed the doorbell, which bonged politely somewhere in the house.

  A tall, thin, balding man in jeans and a tee shirt opened the door. “Mr. Steinmetz?” Lauren asked. The hand that held the knob was adorned with a very beautiful koi fish tattoo.

  He backed up a step so they could enter. “Come on in.”

  “Mr. Steinmetz, I’m Detective Riley and this is Detective Reese with the Buffalo Police Cold Case—”

  “I know who you are.” He motioned them inside. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up for twenty years.”

  Reese and Riley exchanged glances as they stepped through the threshold. That was a greeting they’d never had before.

  He seated them at his dining room table, excusing himself to get coffee for everyone. Reese kept an eye on him as he fussed in the kitchen, just in case he decided this wasn’t the best course of action and went postal on them. Lauren got her notepad out, writing down that opening statement at the top, along with the date, time, address, and his name. Steinmetz came back holding a carafe of coffee in one hand and three mugs skillfully held by their handles interlaced between his fingers.

  “Thank you,” Lauren told him as he poured her a cup.

  “I’ll be right back with the cream and sugar,” he told them and went back into the kitchen.

  “Are you kidding me?” Reese whispered. “Is he going to bake us a cake now?”

  “Shh
h,” Lauren hissed. Her eyes traveled to the family portraits on the wall. Steinmetz, a pretty lady she assumed was his wife, and three teenage girls, all wearing denim shirts and white pants on a beach somewhere. A perfect middle-class family. She wondered if he had ever told his wife about the night he left a woman lying in the street with a knife sticking up out of her back. You’d think that would come up, maybe over dinner some night; Hey, pass the roasted red peppers and by the way, my ex-girlfriend stabbed someone to death. These mashed potatoes are delicious.

  He put the cream and sugar bowl down in front of Reese. “You look like a man who takes it sweet, like me.”

  Reese nodded, shoveling the sugar into his mug. “Thanks, but this wasn’t necessary.”

  “It’s no problem and I think we’re going to be here for a while.” His eyes traveled to Lauren’s. “Or not.”

  “What makes you say that?” She asked.

  “You’re here to arrest me, right? For the girl at the Ozone Bar? This is what this is all about, right?”

  Lauren didn’t know if she should try to scribble all that down before he said he wanted to call his lawyer or try to remember it and keep him rolling.

  “Before you say anything else,” Reese jumped in, “we aren’t here to arrest you, but we are going to read you your rights.”

  Reese produced a rights card from his wallet and carefully read both sides, making sure to ask after each line, “Do you understand?” He then dated and timed the card and had Steinmetz sign it.

  “Now,” Reese said tucking the precious rights card into the folder, “what can you tell us about that night?”

  Steinmetz ran his hand back and forth over his bald pate, a nervous habit he’d probably had since his long hair days. Taking a deep breath, he looked up. “I don’t know where to start. In my head, I’ve practiced what I would say a million times but now that you’re really here, I don’t know.”

  “How about the name of the woman you were with at the Ozone?”

  “Shannon Pilski. Her name’s Shannon Pilski.”

  “Is Shannon still local?” Reese asked as Lauren wrote that down and underlined it.

  “As far as I know.”

  Lauren could tell he was trying to be 100 percent truthful, his guilt overflowing into his speech.

  “The last I heard she was living in an apartment in South Buffalo near the Irish Center. She’s an alcoholic. She was back then too, but I just thought she was a party girl, you know? We all drank a lot. She always just took it to the extreme.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?” Reese was taking the lead; Steinmetz seemed shamed when he spoke to Lauren.

  “For three years. We had a son together. I thought we had a son together, that’s why I never called the police. I didn’t want our son to grow up without his parents. But that was wrong. I should have called when I saw she was dead on the news.”

  “What do you mean you thought you had a son together?”

  “Noah was eight months old when it happened. I thought he was my son. After this happened her drinking got worse. We broke up, I started my own collision business out here, got married, but I still paid for my son. After her fourth DWI she decides she’s going to take me to court for more child support but not before swearing out a warrant for not paying back support, which was bogus. I got arrested. The case was thrown out, but my lawyer decided to go hardball. Said he wanted a DNA test, my name on the birth certificate, and full custody.” He covered his face with his hands. “I should have just let it go,” he breathed between his fingers.

  “He wasn’t yours?” Reese guessed.

  Steinmetz shook his head, face still covered. “No. Not biologically, but he was my son. I raised him and I agreed to keep paying child support for him. Noah was my son. But tell that to a fourteen-year-old boy whose mom’s a drunk? He started getting into trouble, skipping school, doing drugs, fighting.”

  “Where is Noah now?”

  His shoulders heaved up and down heavily. “I haven’t heard from him in six years. I don’t think Shannon has either. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

  Lauren let the pain of the moment pass for Steinmetz. “Is that why you never came forward? Because of Noah?”

  He took a deep breath and sat up straight, laying his palms flat on the table. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. At first I guess it was true, but then, I was just afraid. And now you’re here and I’m ready. For the consequences.”

  “Why don’t you just tell us what happened in the bar that night?” Reese told him, patting him on the hand for moral support.

  “I was working at my dad’s collision shop on Fillmore Avenue. Me and her planned to go out because her mom had the baby for the night and it was ladies’ night so the girls drank free. But she was already smashed when I picked her up at our apartment in Cheektowaga.”

  Cheektowaga was a first ring suburb of the city. No wonder they never got caught, Lauren thought. They came into the neighborhood and then never came back.

  “We get to the bar and she’s already pissed at me because I wanted to take a shower and change and my shorts didn’t have pockets so she had to put my wallet and keys and stuff into her purse. We get to the bar and she’s drinking that cheap bar vodka on the rocks, one after another. It was packed and the band loud. I’m trying to squeeze in at the bar and get drinks and there’s this Hispanic girl sitting there. I hand her my five-dollar bill and ask her if she can get me my drinks. It’s so loud I have to repeat myself a couple times, getting real close to her ear so she can hear what I want. Shannon just loses it. She starts going off that I’m hitting on this girl. Who the hell does she think she is? Doesn’t she know we have a baby together? And she’s swinging. I’m trying to hold her back, the girl is yelling at her now, calling her crazy. The next thing I know the bouncer grabs both of them by their arms and marches them right out the front door. Me and the girl’s friend slip out just as the bouncer closed the door on us. I thought it was over. But they kept yelling at each other. Then the Hispanic girl spit in Shannon’s face. The next thing I know she’s digging in her purse for my work knife and she jumps on the girl’s back. It happened so fast, it was like lightning. I pulled her off, but it was too late. There was my knife, sticking up in her back and she wasn’t moving. Shannon had cut her hand and was bleeding like a stuck pig so I wrapped my arms around her and dragged her away. She used my jean jacket to wrap her hand. Then we got in my car and just left. She was still screaming, ranting and raving the whole way back to Cheektowaga.”

  He brought the brown glazed ceramic mug to his lips and looked down into the steaming coffee. It’s the kind of mug his wife probably bought at a cute little pottery shop when they were on vacation, Lauren observed, when he wasn’t thinking about that time his ex-girlfriend shanked someone. He took a swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the coffee, took a deep breath, and went on. “I got her calmed down enough to take her to my sister Amy’s house a couple streets over. She’s a nurse. We told her that Shannon had broke a beer bottle in her hand. Amy had stitched her up before for her drunken falls plenty of times. She never even put two and two together when the murder was on the news the next day. I mean Shannon was a drunk, but she wasn’t a killer, right?”

  Except for that night, Lauren thought, when she actually killed someone.

  Reese tried to keep him on track. “Why did you have a knife with you?”

  “My dad’s shop wasn’t in the best neighborhood and it was useful, you know? I’m a mechanic. I used it to cut open boxes, pry lids off cans, a thousand little things. I wore it on a clip on my belt. I just threw it in her big black purse with the rest of my stuff. I never thought she would pull it out.”

  Lauren wrote that down. “Was it a pocket knife? A butterfly knife … ?”

  “It was a hunting knife with a five-inch blade. It had a little leather sheath. The sheath was gone. I think
she must have dropped it.”

  She had. Lauren thought back to the crime scene photos: the sheath was recovered next to a car parked on the street.

  “What happens now?” Steinmetz asked, leaning back in his chair. From this angle, Lauren could see that he was skinny to the point of being boney, like his shoulders were thin sticks his clothes drooped from. She had always been accused of being too thin, but this guy was gaunt. “Do you put the cuffs on me? Should I call my wife?”

  “Does your wife know about the murder?” Lauren asked.

  He nodded. “When she got pregnant with our first daughter I told her. When I tell you that every time I have heard a police siren for the last twenty years I thought it was coming for me, it’s no exaggeration. I should have come in. After Noah left, I should have turned myself in.” His whole body slumped forward, eyes welling with tears that didn’t quite spill over. His thin frame seemed to bend on itself, like he was caving in.

  “Sir, any charges against you would have to be brought by the district attorney,” Reese told him, “but only murder has no statute of limitations. You should call your lawyer, tell him you talked to us, and be prepared to come down and give a formal statement. Why don’t you give us as much information on Shannon as you can?”

  Lauren marveled at how prepared Kenneth Steinmetz was to go to jail for Vinita Ortiz, even though he wasn’t the one who stabbed her. The statute of limitations for being an accessory ran out years ago and even though his crime was one of omission, if his physical condition was any indication, it had weighed on him heavily all this time.

  He excused himself after providing Shannon’s date of birth, parents’ names, and last known address. He walked over to a cherry-stained wooden cabinet and opened a drawer. Inside were dozens of snapshots that he sifted through until he came up with the one he was looking for.